Trip To Oregon
by Wasting The Day
Summary: R for language and sex. LoganKurtJean-Paul. Lovers meet up, while a friend is jealous and sleeps with a local hooker to see why straight men liked them so. 20 Hotel and crummy Vodka.


**Title:** A Trip To Oregon.  
**Rating:** R for language and sex.  
**Pairing:** Kurt/Logan, Jean-Paul/Hooker  
**Disclaimer:** Owned by... Marvel! And the hooker is owned by no one but the local pimp.  
**Summary: **Kurt wants Logan. JP wants Logan, but JP gets drunk. And... confirms something he wondered for a long time.  
**Notes:** Central Point is a real place. So is the Pioneer. Don't go there, its sleazy. I didnt get this beta'd, so dont shoot me if somethings incorrect. Please.  
  
Logan sped down Interstate 5 on a dark blue motorcycle. He'd just left Portland, four hours behind him. He planned to rendezvous with someone he considered more than a friend, but less than a significant other, in Central Point. He was an hour away.  
  
Kurt had somehow (much to his amazement, mind you) managed to convince Cyclops to let him borrow an X-Jet. Jean-Paul, Northstar, piloted the jet across the U.S. He knew about Kurt and his lover, and frankly, was a bit jealous it wasn't him. As the resident X-fag, he'd assumed Kurt would have run to him in his time of sexual needs. He hadn't, and now Jean-Paul was quite curious as to whom this other man was. He thought he knew all ready; it wasn't that hard to mistake the tenseness or elongated eye catching between the two during practice sessions. Or how neither would shower at the same time, but would stare in the direction the other went for too long. It was one of those obvious "I'm in love with you but the world cant tell" actions the two took. But Wolverine? That was something Jean-Paul couldn't understand. The hairiest man alive, ragin' Canadian, fierce, slept with anything that walked? Seemed a bit under Kurt, but then again, Kurt was covered in blue fur. So it'd be like shacking up with a buffer, rougher, version of himself, really.  
  
Jean-Paul had landed the plane about an hour ago, it was 5pm now, and Kurt was supposed to be back by 10am. Boy, did he feel like a chaperon right then. He sat in a crummy bar, the Pioneer, drinking crummy vodka. Watered down, to much ice. Watered down, however, was not the way to describe the local scene (if you wished to call it a scene). Prostitutes, or whores if you didn't want to pay, lined the dark walls and hovered over tabletops. And then, the unthinkable happened, a woman came up to Jean-Paul, breasts barely contained in a halter top, fishnets ripped up and go-go boots that would make a Drag Queen cringe. Hair laden with Crisco, dripping over Northstars' lap, extremely unattractive, and makeup that'd make Bozo look like Mimi from Drew Carey. She ignored his elfin ears, and played with his pepper colored hair. Teasing it, teasing him. She was drunk. He was drunk, and so he agreed to fuck her. Well, at least give it a test drive. He'd been gay so long, and started to wonder, what was it about women that drove straight men mad?  
  
Across town, Kurt was thinking along the same line: What was it about Logan that drove him mad? Was it that he oozed sex? Probably, yes. But he couldn't help it, the muscles, the hair, the fact that he was so mellow and yet, very intense. He couldn't wait for that roar of machinery as it came into the hotel parking lot, for the lingering cigar scent on Logan's shirt, the "come-hither" look he so successfully managed. Ach! There it was, Kurt heard the roar of the motorcycle. His skin began to tingle and a tight knot was forming in anticipation in the base of his stomach. An uneasy few minutes later, he heard the ding of the elevator go off, as it opened onto the top floor, his floor, and three stories up. He quickly jumped around to light the candles, and then blew them out. Logan wouldn't appreciate candles, would he? To late to find out, the knock came on the door. Trembling with excitement and fear, Kurt turned the doorknob, and opened the door, welcoming in the night of sexual indulgence.  
  
Jean-Paul followed the trash to some cheap, sleazy hotel. Three stories. Third floor they went, end of the hall. Was he really doing this? Yes. He was. In they went, the hooker said something, sounded like "lights on or off?" Definitely off. Hell yes, off. She got a little rough with him once she flipped them off. Tossed the delicate man onto the bed, he hit his head on the backboard. What'd he get himself into? He didn't like women. To late! The hooker (what was her name, he pondered) unzipped his pants, yanking them off in a swift move. She'd somehow already removed his shoes without his realizing it. Or maybe he removed them? He didn't really know, the crummy vodka didn't seem so crummy now. It was out of his character, to drink so much, to be so cheap, but hell, he had to do it sometime. Money wasn't everything, usually. She worked her way back up his torso, sliding cold hands under his shirt, giving him a shiver. He could feel the coarse fishnets rubbing his bare thighs. She moved back down south, fingers quick in sliding his underwear off, now, too. She didn't stop to gaze at his cock, the way past lovers had. Now she removed his shirt, over his head, then off with his undershirt. Northstar lay naked under the woman, in a $20 room, drunk, and loving it.  
  
Kurt closed the door behind Logan. Yes, there it was. The smoky cigar smell (it never seemed to leave him, even after five hours riding in the wind), the presence of a God. Logan, James Howlett, Wolverine, God of the Sex. Sex God. Kurt trembled in place, just thinking of what they might do that night. From somewhere, a six-pack of beer was unearthed. Logan was like that, surprises coming from nowhere. Logan turned, slowly, to face Kurt. He breathed in the ex-priests musky scent. Kurt shut the door with his tail, moved across the room, silently, slowly, and shut the blinds completely. Encased in darkness, they finally moved towards each other. Logan tugged his shirt off, threw it far away, and slid right up to Kurts' warm body. Nightcrawler still wore his X suit, and as his breathing grew heavier, and he reached to encircle the short man, he felt Logan's rough hands reach for his zipper. It moved downwards, as the other hand helped push the uniform back and away. Logan knelt to help Kurt step out of the Kevlar, and rising, slowly rubbed his hands up Kurts' blue thighs. His legs felt silken to the touch, erotic to the touch. Slowly, he worked his way north, kissing bits of flesh here and there, stopping to nuzzle the dark blue pubic hair, licked his stomach. Stopping at Kurt's nipples. To each he gave a small, delicious tug. Softly, but enough to get Kurt hard against Logan's stomach. The shorter man continued on his path towards the mouth, his hands searching Kurts back, endlessly, while Kurt's tail flipped back and forth in excitement. Logan's lips met that of Kurts. He pressed his sunburnt lips against the supple mouth, while Kurt's tongue explored the inside of his lover's mouth. The fuzzy elf grabbed hold of Logan's arms, and pushed him backwards, towards the bed. They fell together, Kurt on top. Slowly, mischievously, he backed off Logan. With his ample tail, he tugged the other mans' boots off. He used his teeth to slide the zipper downwards, tugged the jeans off. Logan, like always, didn't have underwear on. It was always a plus. Kurt smiled like the devil he was, and sneaked his tongue out to touch the hardened cock. But then, Logan uttered his first word of the night, "No."  
  
Northstar didn't have as rough a time getting an erection as he thought he might of. The hooker, who by now he was calling Sheila, was wiggling in his lap, as her tongue licked his nipples. He left the rest up to her. She stopped her licking, just for the moment, and he could feel her slipping a condom on him. Slowly, she dragged a sharp nail along the base of his cock, tingling his insides. Her other hand groped his balls, tugging, squeezing.  
  
Wild thoughts raced through his drunken head, but he pushed them aside. After all, he was just trying a new way of having sex, right? She hadn't even pulled off her fishnets, he realized, and rather enjoyed the feel of them on his skin. Rough, reminded him of how Logan's hands felt. That's right, he thought, she wasn't a hooker, she was Logan. Logan come to life from his thoughts, he was in his hands; everything she did, he pictured it to be Logan. He felt her inch forward a bit, and raise her voluptuous ass higher in the air. He tensed, waiting for the penetration. She slid herself over Jean-Paul's cock; he jumped at the feel of this new area. Softer than an ass, he felt squeezed in, caught. She began swiveling her hips, rocking up and down, bending every which way it seemed. Jean-Paul groaned in pleasure. He felt her bend forward a bit, and her breasts swung in front of his face. Tentatively, he reached for them, and gave one an experimental squeeze. It yielded to his pressure. He reached for the other, and fondled the breasts, large as balloons. Fake, yet oh-so-sweet, supple to the touch. She smiled, she was pretty in her own way, he thought. But still preferred Logan. Rocking his body, she stretched up and reached for the ceiling, taking his play toys away. He was getting closer to the edge, closer to exploding inside this torn body. He was there, one more rock... and he was gone. Jean-Paul groaned, deep, and arched as he came. Panting, feeling dirty, he watched as Sheila climbed off. She rearranged her fishnets, reached for her shirt, covering herself up again. Her skirt was hanging on a chair, but her Go-Go boots had never come off.  
  
Jean-Paul slipped her a fifty he'd laid on the nightstand, and she was gone. Suddenly Jean-Paul felt disgusted with himself. He'd just paid for sex, from the opposite sex nonetheless. He was better than that; he was rich, handsome... so why had he come to this? Because, he thought, he couldn't have what he wanted. A first, yes. He could smell the cheap perfume she wore on his skin, and wanted to vomit. He turned the showerheads on, as hot as they could go, and jumped in. He just wanted to be clean.  
  
"No?" Kurt was startled; Logan never spoke on these evenings.

"No, elf. You heard me." He swung his legs out from under the elf, and over the side of the bed. He rested his head in his hands, hunched over, and shook his head. "No, its over." A loud groan from next door penetrated the small room. Logan stood up, and reached for his pants. He couldn't do it. Logan redressed himself facing the wall, he couldn't look at Kurt, not right now. Finally, enough silence had passed. Logan turned around, and sat in a chair near the door. His pack of beer sat next to it, along with his boots and Kurt's uniform. He popped a tab, and stared at the blue elf. Kurt was curled in a ball on the bed, eyes closed. Was he crying? Logan didn't want to know. A door clicked closed in the hall, heavy heels on the carpet. Kurt still lay there, motionless. "Beer?" he asked. No answer, except a small tail flick.  
  
"Kurt, I'm not sorry," the voice was gruff, "it was fun. But its over, you know that. I'm leaving." And so Logan left, took his now five-pack with him. Kurt never moved.  
  
9 am came around. Northstar had fled the cheap hotel after an hour in the shower. He still didn't feel clean, and could only think of Logan. He sat in the jet, waiting for Kurt. About 10:30, he finally showed in a puff of smoke and fire. He looked tired, worn out. From a night of good sex, Jean- Paul thought, steaming as he took the jet into the air. If he'd only knew what Kurt had gone through that night. But he didn't ask, and flew the two back. Jean-Paul, jealous of Kurt and Logan; Kurt, saddened to the core of his soul, from losing the best thing he had going.  
  
Neither noticed Logan sitting on his motorbike in the brush on the edge of the field where the jet had been parked. He sighed, and started his bike. Back to Portland he went.


End file.
